The Life Of Two Horrid People
by AshCollector
Summary: So this was Arthur Kirkland's first introduction to Francis Bonnefoy. And as many people may already know, or not know, when you just drove three hours through Texas, two days ago your sister was raped, your father was arrested, and you were successfully separated from all members of your family, you were not in a jolly good mood. So he punched him
1. Prologue

Take two severely abused teenagers, one French one English, throw them in an orphanage in Texas, add in _real_ talent, a bit of luck through the God known as YouTube, and a knack for saying stupid things, and what do you have? A real screwed life story that may possibly make a half decent Fanfiction.

Pairings: FrUK, CanUs, UsUK, and whatever else I may think of.

Warnings: Language, adult situations, abuse ranging from physical to incestuous rape on minors, language, lots of alcohol, a bit of potential drug play, and a tad bit of language.

…

Arthur Kirkland was a strange child. He had a face that would be cute if it was hidden under a layer of filth, an ugly scowl, and two thick strips of hair above permanently unamused bright green eyes. As a five year old growing up on the countryside in England he didn't have many things he craved. Asides from more snacks, longer days, less obnoxious brothers, and parents that weren't such twits. A television would be nice too. These things were not coming anytime soon however, being a lower class citizen didn't leave much spending money on things such as new clothes or fruit roll ups, nope, that was spent on much more important things such as keeping the fridge stocked with food, the car full of gas, and Dad's cup never empty of rum no matter how much he would sip. Or well, chug. Until then the young boy would content himself with running through the large fields and forests, throwing mud at his siblings, swimming in creeks, and more or less living as a savage.

He and his elder two brothers, ages seven and eight respectfully, were fascinated by the idea of living in the wild. The boys would attempt to hunt squirrels (much to their secret relief they never succeeding in killing any of them), pick various berries, roots, and fungi, attempt to eat tree bark, give up on it and instead just set it on fire and try to messily cook their findings in a stew that was not edible in any way, shape, or form. They were happy kids that enjoyed fighting, dirt, and running away from parents when the word "chores" was mentioned. Arthur being only five years of age and not starting school until the next year (he had had the option of being nearly a year younger than his peers or older, he choose whichever allowed him not to wake up early) was left alone to his own devices. The option of going outside and successfully avoiding all nagging from his darling mother or whining from his baby sister who couldn't take a simple twist to the arm was often one he partook in eagerly.

He enjoyed playing by himself. When his brothers were home he was always the slowest, shortest, and most punchable, but by himself, no, he was none of those. He became invincible, an explorer of the wild who found treasure in forgotten caves (a tiny opening between to rocks he could crawl into), climb tall mountains (said rocks suddenly became larger and more terrifying, but _someone_ should save the princess), or sail across oceans and loots nearby villages (Okay, maybe the looting was of his sisters cookies, and maybe the ocean was a small pond that when warm enough he could splash around in, but it was the thought that counted and at that moment he was thinking really hard of being a pirate).

Arthur Kirkland was a content child during the day. The children were reluctant to come inside for the night, but come they must and they best not disobey Mother; she was a terrible nagger, bless her cold bitter heart. His father would return around the dinner time, slip his tie off, kiss Mother, and ask if one of the boys could be a dear and bring Daddy a drink, been a rough day at work. An hour later and the man would be in a jolly good mood. He'd offer the children money, ask them questions about school, tell them jokes and offer them sips of his drink that their Mother always made sure they never touched.

At eight his good mood would be gone and Arthur didn't like being around him. He complained about work, how he wasn't making enough money supporting these cocksucking children who ran wild and did nothing. His wife was getting uglier and uglier by the year and if she popped one more kid out he'll hang himself. The boys stayed away from their father, opting for the comfort of their connected rooms instead.

By nine shouting began, plates would break, and war broke out between his parents. He didn't cry like his younger sister. Well not that much. Eventually a cry of fright and pain would be uttered by the woman and Arthur would cover his ears, close his eyes, and pretend it was nothing. He would sleep eventually though. Thoughts of mystical creatures watching over him soothed him. Singing quietly to himself, lullabies were never something his Mother would do, would lull him to a relaxed state that quickly gave way to sleep.

The boy Arthur grew as the years progressed as nature intended him to. His scowl was still present, his eyebrows, if possible, even bushier, though he did begin to bathe semi regularly around the age of eight. Once every couple of days was more than enough, right? When his mother became impregnated by her fifth child, God save her poor abused uterus, his father decided it was time for a change in scenery. Instead of painting the porch or redecorating the house he moved them to the state of Texas, a boring land filled with obese cowboys and kissing cousins he assumed. He being the fantastic Brit he was moped and grumbled all through the move, not able to find a single good thing about this. He liked his creaky falling apart house, he liked the slimy pond a bit away, and the intimidating forest free to explore at the edge of his backyard. Why in the blazes would he want to move to a place that only had hamburgers and country music to offer?

Nonetheless he was a eight year old boys and very rarely do eight year old boys get to make choices in adult matters. So pack his stuff he did, but you can be sure as hell that it was with as much anger and self pity he could put into each little motion he made towards moving away from his beloved country. They had a tire swing. You do not fuck with a boy's tire swing.

…

Francis Bonnefoy had a life quite different from the previous talked about child Arthur. For starters he was French. A thing like nationality may seem small to the ignorant until you realize how much it entails. For example, Francis Bonnefoy quite enjoyed baths. Even as a young boy they were always a highlight of his day. The sweet smelling shampoos, the relaxing bubbles, and the delicious scent the bath salts would give off always made him shiver in delight. To him, if you did not bathe daily you were nothing more than scum on the bottom of a pool. Or bath drain. Another thing about him, he was well off. A bit more than well off. His father was an artist famous for his beautiful paintings of young boys, his mother a professional singer. Both of them also had a large sum of money in their bank accounts from their decease parents. In addition to this he was a stuck up brat, one who prided himself on his knowledge of art and food while Kirkland couldn't tell the difference between Swiss and American cheese. Though he never met the boy, was not even aware of his existence, Francis would most certainly not get along with him.

Though they had their differences there were key elements of their character similar to each other. One was the fact that he was stubborn. They both had blond hair, they both enjoyed reading, they were proud of their country of origin, and Francis too had a father that would yell, beat, and rape his wife on drunken whims. See, they had things they could relate to, arguing over favorite authors could lead to hours of conversation! At the age of nine he was moved to America, for some unknown reason his Papa had an obsession with Southern culture and found northern Texas to be an ideal place to move.

The boy's Papa had at that time had been drinking even more, his wife's death at the young age of 32 had rattled him. The poor girl had been killed in a case of drunk driving, ironically not of any fault to her husband. So he did what any reasonable parent would do, instead of quitting drinking, seek therapy, or _something_ beneficial to his child, he drowned his pain in alcohol and began giving his son predatory looks that made Francis' skin crawl.

His wife wasn't there to satisfy his need for a warm body with a slight boyish figure and an almost childish innocence in her face. She wasn't there to shame him away from touching his son's leg for longer than necessary and allowing the hand to slowly creep upwards. So why shouldn't he teach the boy a lesson in love and show him how much he cared for him. His screaming meant he wanted more, a fuzzy part of his alcohol logged mind reasoned with him. The whimpers were of pleasure, the "stops" cried by him was just confusion, the red marks and bruises would fade and he probably liked it rough, yes?

For years Francis was forced to take it. Attempts to lock his door were practically laughable. Hiding under his bed would just result in rug burn from being pulled out by the drunken monster he called Papa. And when he turned thirteen his father became bored of him. Bored of his developing body that was showing hints of turning into a man. Tired of the slight stubble sprouting from his chin that was once smooth and soft. His son was suddenly very unattractive to him. Though useful for the occasional blow he wasn't worth the effort to coax the child's legs open, and it became too much of the hassle to ignore the silent tears that would just never disappear. Christ, give him a home, food, money, and regular sex and the fucker couldn't even bother to take his cock with a smile on his face?

It took the fuckers at school over five years to add the bruises up in their head and figure out, hey guys, maybe we should send a social worker to the Bonnefoys! When prodded for answers Francis spilled them easily and readily with a calm look on his face. His Father was arrested, tried, and sentence, getting a slap on the wrist in many opinions with a jail time of eleven years. Francis was transferred to the foster system.

…

The eldest three at that point had learned how to take beatings in place of their Mother while she was pregnant. Even as a drunk Father was still reluctant to hit someone holding his child. Simon, the second oldest, had figured it out first. Just start flinging as many curse words as you could at the man and he would go on a rampage, hitting every part of him he could reach before storming away to drink in his office, like he would do with his wife. So when he would get that dangerous look in his eyes and they saw their Mum begin to raise her arms in fright one of them would come to the rescue. More often than not it was Gregory who did this, him believing himself to be the man of the house saw it as his duty.

Their Mother committed suicide a day after giving birth to Peter. Arthur assumed she couldn't stand seeing her sons being braver than her. "What a coward" Was all the Simon could say on the subject. He promptly fled to his room which he refused to leave until the funeral was over with, Greg had to bring him his meals. Arthur assumed the role of Mother, the other two busy dealing with that man. He was the one responsible for changing the babies diapers, reminding his father to get off his arse and buy some bloody formula on his way home from work (he was so much more helpful when sober, though not by much), and helping his sister with her schoolwork. Tiresome, but a role he readily accepted, asides from the occasional grumbling on his part.

Life continued like this for a while. His Father grew worse and began to bring his friends over to play poker and smoke fat cigars. Women were often seen leaving his bedroom in the wee hours of the morning, and the children found themselves cleaning the house off empty alcohol bottles and emptying the ash trays with no help from him. At age fourteen he knew the routine well. He knew when to drop to the floor and curl in on himself. He knew at what company he had to shoo his younger siblings to the upper level of the house. He could tell on what days he had to stay far away from him or else risk breaking another arm.

Arthur Kirkland became so use to this that he assumed he didn't need to stay home from school to watch over his twelve year old sister. He just needed to leave some soup in the microwave, a bucket beside the bed, and some tissues on the nightstand. His father worked during the day, nothing to worry about. He was not expecting to come home to a sister with bruising beginning to form around her neck and her wearing a completely new outfit than from that morning. He was not expecting her to have red rimmed eyes or for her to refuse to speak to him. He was not prepared for his elder brothers to shove him out of the room to speak to her or when he listened with his ear against the door to hear words like "Forced it in me" or "Said that they paid Dad three hundred to let them have a key."

After this news however he was not surprised in the slightest when she, Peter, and him were given money to go to the theater and for the three to return home to his two brothers, only sixteen and seventeen mind you, being put into handcuffs. His father was rolled away on a gurney broken, battered, and bleeding. Greg was sent to a juvenile home across the state along with Simon. His sister moved back to England with a kind Aunt who insisted she could only afford to care for one, lying old woman. Peter was adopted nearly instantly. The kid was bloody adorable, of course he was, while Arthur was shipped to Northern Texas to an orphanage where he had zero chance of ever being taken in by a family.

…

A note from the Author

The sister, Simon, and Greg are not Scotland Ireland Wales or what the fuck ever. Just needed them in my story. Neither father is dead, none of the parents are any countries. Peter is however, obviously, Sealand. Thanks for reading, reviews are appreciated.


	2. Hello, my name is Asshole

_The plot is set into motion, the two protagonists meet, hilarity does not ensue._

…

The first meeting between the two boys could best be described as rocky. Francis had arrived at the orphanage approximately two or three weeks ahead and was quite happy with his empty room. He was not pleased by a rude boy entering it without any warning from any staff (Or maybe there was, Francis rarely listened to what the woman that was assigned to his floor said to him) and throwing his disgusting things onto the empty bed. A thing that must be remembered about the two is that one is British and one is French. Need more be spoken? The first moment Arthur spoke up and said a stiff greeting his fate was set. It wasn't because he was British per say, that could be forgiven. There was just something about him that was so disagreeable. Maybe it was his thick eyebrows that made his dark green eyes seem so angry. Or perhaps it was the rebellious stance he had taken, legs spread slightly apart, hands balled at his side, obviously prepared for a fight if he was asking for one. No, the French boy believed it to be the mocking, condescending sneer on his face as he looked him up and down as if judging him.

And judging him he was, because unfortunately for the other Arthur Kirkland was just as much a judgmental asshole as Francis Bonnefoy. When he looked the other up and down what he noticed first was his clothes. They were nothing like his own hand me downs, patched up, and stained clothing. No, these were designer, and if he wasn't mistaken French. The boy in front of him appeared delicate, his posture made him look snobbish (A rather correct assumption), and he smelled really fucking nice. Now smelling nice isn't a bad thing, Arthur believed himself to smell nice. He had gotten over his aversions to baths eventually and wasn't opposed to dabbing a _tiny_ bit of his brother's cologne onto his wrists every now and again. This however was not the case with Francis. No, he smelled really fucking nice, as in "dunked into a crate of vanilla and sunshine then dried on a patch of clouds" nice. He didn't think Head and Shoulders offered that particular scent. So his new roommate obviously had money, his new roommate obviously was a delicate twat, and his new roommate obviously did not like him. He could tell this by the fact that Francis had just informed him of the fact that he looked like something the cat dragged in and if he could be a doll could he get the fuck out? Oh, and his new roommate was French.

So this was Arthur Kirkland's first introduction to Francis Bonnefoy. And as many people may already know, or not know, when you just drove three hours through Texas, two days ago your sister was raped, your father was arrested, and you were successfully separated from all members of your family, you were not in a jolly good mood. So he did what he found to be the most reasonable thing at that time, and let's once again emphasize the point that Arthur was not having a good day and had always been a violent child. He tackled the blond boy to the ground.

…

"So you got into a fight the other day, would you like to talk about that?" Feliciano Vargas, didn't have a clipboard in his lap. There was no weird couch-bed hybrid in his office or even a fake plant. The walls were a dull cream color, nothing elaborate, simple and practical. The room was well organized, the desk clear of papers though crowded with framed images of his new psychiatrist-or-therapist-or-whatever-the-correct-name-was and his friends. One appeared to be a sibling of his. A young man with a grumpy expression, he looked shocking similar to Feliciano yet had a darker complexion and hair. Another showed what he assumed was him as a child with a man who appeared to be in his thirties or forties. Yet others showed his patients. He hadn't been working here long, he had only gotten his degree a little while back and was damn lucky to get a job so fast. Still, he had a thing for taking pictures of others, he always did like photography.

"Not much to talk about, sir." The man nodded and moved to scribble on a piece of paper on his desk.

"So you lost?" He mumbled to himself. The patient scoffed in disgust and crossed his arms.

"Is this reverse psychiatry?" Was asked.

"Is it working?" The baby faced therapist shot up in his seat with a hopeful gleam in his eyes. Arthur rolled his eyes thinking that he really was a piss poor excuse for a shrink. His eyes traveled to the walls. A simple cream color, nothing fancy. They however were covered in paintings with the distinctive signature of _Feliciano Vargas_ on each. He really was a good artist.

"For someone from France he does pack a punch, sir." He nodded and waited for him to continue. When he didn't he was forced to break the silence.

"You don't like the French?"

"I'm British. I do believe it's a genetic thing." Another note was made. _Patient is very British._

"How long did you live in Britain?" A series of questions began, ones that Vargas knew the answers to already, yet found them more telling and interesting when spoken by Arthur himself. The Brit on the other hand just found it painfully boring.

"Did you have a good relationship with your Dad?" A bitter laugh came from the younger man and Feliciano looked up in interest. "Why are you laughing? Did I say something funny?" His head was tilted to the side in an almost childish innocent way, as if he didn't realize that the answer should be obvious.

"You have my folder, haven't you read it?"

"Si, I have, but it doesn't tell me what you think, Arthur, and I want to know that the most."

"I think you're a moron." Ouch, that one hurt,

"I think that's mean... Do you always yell at people when they ask questions?" A head was shaken and a mouth opened to answer.

"No, I answer questions. I don't like my Father. Enough said."

"Would you like to change the subject?"

"What gave it away, sir?" The doctor thought for a second before answering.

"You sounded more British!" Happy with his answer he proceeded to switch the topic to the safer one of Italian deserts and how he would take him out for some gelato some time if he wanted to try some. Despite his naivety and silliness Feliciano wasn't a bad therapist. He knew how far to push his patients and he knew that if he stuck with this one a bit longer then he could help. He also knew that food made everyone feel better so therefore offering Arthur some was a good idea.

…

The fight that had occurred between the two on their first meeting was not very serious, not very long, and most certainly would not be their last. Asides from some bruises, a few scratch marks (Francis had nice nails...), and a slightly swollen lip on that pretty English face, neither of the two suffered any serious casualties. The two of them had suffered worse and could suck it up and deal with it. Physical wounds aside, the fight had other repercussions. An elbow to the face for one lovely woman and a flat out kick in the shin to another as they attempted to break the two apart resulted in them not being very well liked by the staff. Word spread fast and when you've only been in a place for a few days and already are in a fight you become disliked. Adults are all for saying they only want to help the children, and this is in fact true. The problem is they only want to help the ones that are not violent little assholes.

Over the weeks this became obvious. Small things like not bringing food into their room or turning off the lights at curfew were enforced. Though it was the staff's job to do this, they to be quite honest didn't have to be such dicks about it. The house ran on a point system. The more negative points you received the more chores were given, the earlier your curfew was, things such as that. Positive led to small incentives. TV privileges, extra dessert, less chores, what more could a kid dream of. (That was heavy sarcasm by the way.) So Arthur forgot to turn the TV off on time? _Two points Kirkland!_ Francis brought a bag of chips to his room? _Against house rules, Bonnefoy, you know this._ It was all great fun.

The boy's enrollment in school went a bit smoother. Francis was a natural when it came to social interaction. He liked to charm people. He liked to touch, and laugh, and be the center of attention. Even if his accent was mocked from time to time (And he had over heard someone calling him a French fag once. Spot on, but still very very rude in his opinion) being foreign helped when when living in a small town in Texas. It made him instantly popular, he was something exciting and new, something that drew the others to him. The same was true with Arthur, however the other was socially awkward. He had a stiffness about him and a short temper, never one to tolerate idiots for long. (Unless he was trying to screw them, then hey, yeah he totally thought Jersey Shore was the shit. Your parents aren't home? We could, like, watch it together, right? Because when Arthur Kirkland wanted to be charming and he wanted to be liked, let's just say those dark green eyes became smoldering and he really did have a gorgeous smile.) A cute accent only got you so far in life, and unless you had nice legs, Arthur really did have a small kink for legs, or was semi intelligent, then you were nothing but scum on street to the Brit and that attitude didn't get you very far in life, now did it?

Because of this Arthur Kirkland didn't have many friends. He clung to Francis out of default, their constant bickering something he could rely on. The two had only known one another for a few weeks at that point in time, being kicked out of your home a week or two before winter break had its perks. By then however the two had become use to one another. Argue, yell, occasionally fight, and then start the cycle over. It was slightly enjoyable, had became a hobby of theirs. Still, they didn't like each other. They would purposely do all they could to antagonize one another into violence. They were strange children, their reactions to different things varied greatly. For example, Arthur asking where his parents were and if he really was such a pathetic obnoxious boy that they couldn't be bothered to care for him. This resulted in a bitter laugh from the other. However insulting the uneven patch of facial hair he had been growing out made the boy spit in his face with an angry snarl. Which led to another fight. Jesus Christ.

As the weeks progressed and the months passed the two began to know their limits. Francis learned not to insult Arthur's sister and younger brother. ( It resulted in a broken nose and silence for a week. ) The Brit realized that asking "What? Did Daddy and Mommy like to touch widdle Fwoggy woggy?" hit a little too close to home if the pained and embarrassed look that crossed his face briefly said anything.

Other things, limits that normally wouldn't be stretched, were fair game. How much could he insult Arthur's dead mother until he snapped? Would Francis punch him or just retaliate with a rumor himself if the lie of him having genital warts was spread around the school? How far could he reach into the Brit's pants before he couldn't breath from being strangled? These were all important questions that desperately needed an answer. For science of course.

…

"It's a lovely recipe, non? When you're done with the garlic sauce you just throw it over the pasta and behold, perfection!" Feliciano eagerly nodded his head and hurried to scribble the notes down on his paper. He had to show his brother this when he got home, he always did love French cooking.

"Ve, Franny this sounds so good! I want to cook it for you some day!" Unlike sessions with Arthur these ones were considerably less awkward. Francis liked the Italian doctor and treated him like a friend instead of his therapist. He didn't mind though and had yet to bug him past "How are you feeling today? Did you and Arthur get into another fight yet?" They chatted animatedly,about topics ranging from past girlfriends (and boyfriends. Francis was loving the fact that they had allowed a gay counselor to work here. Though to be fair, this place was dirt poor and hired anyone that managed to get a degree, hence the barely twenty six year old sitting across from him. ), recipes, and movies. He flirted, the Italian man child didn't noticed.

"You can cook for me anytime, Feli. So cute, just want to eat you!" He exclaimed cheerfully. How Feliciano could be that oblivious he would never know.

"Who taught you how to cook, Franny?" Francis thought for a second before answering.

"My mother liked to cook, she was terrible at it. She liked it though so she did the baulk of the cooking. I picked up a few cookbooks and my father helped me with some of it." He wrinkled his nose at the memory of blackened toast and crunchy eggs. His father laughed at her attempts, would tease her endlessly about it, and sneak Francis a slice of cake he had cooked the night before as an incentive for eating the rubbish she made.

"Were you and your Father close?" The teenager shut his mouth and stared down at his lap. He didn't know how to answer.

"He helped cook and clean, I think he wanted to bond with me." The previous excitement in his voice had left, replaced with an awkwardness that left him unsure of what to say.

"Did you want to bond with him?" A shrug of the shoulders was an answer. "Did you like spending time with him?" He remained silent once again. He was not enjoying being questioned by the man. "Did you two do things like that often."

"Non, not as much anymore. He hasn't wanted to see me as much lately..."

"Does that make you sad?" The teenage boy across from his scowled.

"Why should it? You know he wasn't the best father." Feliciano shrugged.

"I'd be sad if my Granddad didn't want to talk to me anymore. I wouldn't like it."

"Your Granddad didn't like to fuck you."

…

Francis had a secret, one that he hoped nobody would ever find out: he liked it when Arthur sang. He liked his confident voice, his lyrics he wrote himself, the way he carried himself while loudly and proudly belting out the music. Francis always complained, called him a no talent jack ass, and told him to listen to someone that was actually decent, you know, like him! Francis had always loved singing. Had always appreciated music, something he inherited from his darling mother.

Oh he missed her sweet singing voice dearly. He still owned a few of her CDs. She wasn't majorly famous, but brought in a tidy sum of money and had herself a small following. He wanted to be like her. He wanted to sing and bring joy to others like she did. She had such a pretty voice that would sing him to sleep. Such soft and small hands would wipe away his tears. She always protected him. Even if she couldn't get away from that beast she called a husband- She had tried too, but that resulted in a shot gun pressed against her temple and him telling her where he would hide the bodies, how he would dispose of the evidence, and how he'd fuck the boy and make her watch- she would still keep him safe. His father never touched him while she was there. She was more or less his guardian angel.

…

"Are you a virgin?" It was late at night when the question was asked. Francis knew Arthur had just as much trouble sleeping as he did, nearly four months living with a guy made you knowledgeable on their behavior.

Sure enough a moment later the clear accented voice answered. "No, why?"

"Curious. Who was your first time?" Arthur rolled over in bed and fixed the other with an exasperated glare, though he knew he couldn't see him from across the dark room.

"Why the bloody fuck does it matter to you?"

"Curious, mon cher." He waited for an answer that came after a short pause.

"Eighth grade. She was pretty, had an annoying voice though." The French boy laughed at this and said something along the lines of there being nothing worse than a giggler though.

"One that squeals at everything. It makes you wonder if the sex is worth it, then wonder if you are insane for questioning that." Arthur laughed at this, even though he called him a pervert. "You didn't ask who was mine." There was a short silence, he had a vague idea.

"I don't think I want to know." The subject was dropped and the two considered going back to sleep.

"Have you ever had sex with a boy?" Francis decided to not sleep.

"W-what?" His face became bright red, suddenly very thankful for the dark. He had had crushes, but never acted out on them. He didn't like the idea of being teased or bullied for his sexuality, therefore decided making out with girls was good enough, so why bother with boys? Though he was insanely curious and hoped to experiment with one one day.

"Is that a yes, mon chu?" A giggle escaped him and a smirk overtook his face.

"No, it is not, you tosser. Why the fuck do you want to know?"

"I was simply-"

"Curious, yeah yeah, I get it." He cut him off before asking "Why have you?" The French boy laughed and confirmed that yes, yes he had.

"My sweet friend Antonio. So adorable... Does this topic make you uncomfortable, Arthur?" He lived to make him feel awkward.

"Any topic where I'm forced to imagine you naked does. Ew. Hairy beast." When no homophobic slurs were thrown at him he became curious.

"Would you like to have sex with a man? I never did ask your sexuality..." There was a very telling silence and some nervous shifting around from the British boy. "Is that a yes? Bisexual?"

"Y-yeah, what of it, Frog Legs?"

"Have you ever kissed a boy before?"

"No, I haven't. Unlike you I don't fuck everything that moves, whore." Francis rolled his eyes thinking the other a hypocrite. An idea crossed his mind then and soon Arthur heard the sound of covers being moved and someone walking towards his bed. "What do you want," he asked while squinting to make out the face of his roommate. Covers were pulled away from his face and a half formed "What" barely left him before lips were pressed against his. Arthur froze automatically and felt his face heat up a considerable amount as Francis began placing tiny kisses on his mouth trying to extract a response. He probably should had slapped him away, normally would had, but the way he was going about this was so tender and serious that he soon found himself hesitantly cooperating.

It progressed and soon he felt Francis climb into bed with him, shoving him a bit roughly to make room. A tongue shyly came in play, licking slightly chapped lips before pushing itself in between them. Any doubts Arthur had held before were quickly lost as the kiss became ravenous and heated. Hands began to wander, and quiet words in French were mumbled against his neck while his mouth bit, sucked, and licked at the pale skin.

Arthur had never kissed a boy, only girls. He liked girl soft skin, sweet perfume, and tender way they cooed at him. This was different though. Francis was stronger, more solid as he hovered above him. He seemed to like being in control, and to be honest Arthur wasn't complaining. He never really been dominated before and this was new and interesting. His hands trailed down the French boy's back, moving them to cup his thighs and rub small circles in encouragement. Then the fact that Francis had a penis hit him and that he really should touch that because dammit he was a young experimenting boy who was horny. He felt the other give a slight shiver of pleasure and took this as a continue on sign. Clothes disappeared and they were lost in bliss when they realized that, hey, grinding against each other feels really fucking nice, so lets do that and dirty up the sheets!

…

Sticky, unfortunately not just from sweat, Francis stood from the bed. Ignoring the softly snoring Arthur he threw on a pair of boxers (noting vaguely that he didn't think they were his if the Union Jack was any hint) and padded his way to the bathroom. He quickly washed himself, never liking to be dirty, before returning to his. He didn't climb in bed with Arthur. He didn't plan on mentioning this incident again.

_ Except maybe when one was particularly lonely or horny and would crawl into the others bed. Without even speaking they would kiss their companion softly. Needing no further instruction the other would respond. Gripping blond hair they would pull him closer and let their lust take over_.

He didn't like the boy, he wasn't even very attractive.

_If you ignored his eyes and the way they bore into you, more or less stripping you down and making you feel exposed in a way that was new and exciting. If you ignored his smile that cropped up every now and then, one that was dazzling, practically lit the room up. If you just ignored the way he confidently held himself, proud and unmoving. Always something so alluring about someone who was comfortable in their own skin. _

Francis Bonnefoy did not need romance, he didn't need to settle down just yet. Yes, one day he would enjoy having a wife and kids, but he didn't think that was a possibility. To be quite honest he was terrified of the idea of having a spouse and raising children. Not because of commitment issues, though they were certainly a problem too, but because he thought he would fail at it. He had heard it before, boys that were abused had a higher chance of becoming abusers themselves. The idea of him doing that to his own family made him want to vomit. So for the own good of people he had yet to meet or even be born yet he refuses to settle down. He would keep others safe from himself.

…

Every month their orphanage would go out and do some form of charity work. This usually entailed things such as volunteering at the hospital or reading to the elderly. Attendance was mandatory, the whole thing was pretty much a ploy to get people to feel pity upon them and donate money. This month though they decided to hold a concert for one of those homes where old people go to die in peace. Surprise surprise there were several places where you could donate to the local orphanage. This though was a big deal. A really big fucking deal. Why? Because there were three solos and Francis and Arthur would be damned if they didn't get one of them. A temporary truce was called as they practiced the lines of the songs they were planning on auditioning for. Sure the truce didn't do jack shit, but hey, it was the fact that they were willing to claim they made a truce that counts! Sorta.

In the end they won their roles fairly easily, much too easily. Not even the adults that hated their guts could deny that they deserved the role. Or possibly they decided to put money over pride. Probably that one. So on the day of the show they sang their cruel tiny hearts out to the audience. They realized then that this is what they wanted to do for a living and neither would settle for any less.

…

"Fucking brilliant."

"I'm glad you noticed my stunning performance, Arthur." Too giddy he even retaliate the Brit just laughed and shook his head.

"That was fun, why don't they hold more shit like that instead of picking up trash and stuff?"

"Perhaps they want to actually save the environment, Arthur." Francis answered lazily. This caused the other to pout and flip him the bird.

"Fuck the environment. My entertainment is more important."

"A true poet you are, Arthur. Please, tell me more about how you would like to fuck the environment." It's not that Francis wasn't excited, it just was he enjoyed seeing him get more and more annoyed at him.

"I really dislike you."

"You're just a barrel of wisdom, aren't you, Arthur?"

…

_A note from the author: This took much longer than it should had. I was trying to write a longer chapter, kinda flopped on that, oops. Would you guys prefer longer chapters (about six to ten pages) or shorter (three to five)? After I finish writing a chapter I get really excited and post it. Then remember I have to edit it. Sorry if this caused any confusion._


End file.
